


I Know You Of Old

by Maple_Fay



Series: Tumblr reposts [18]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M, it's all in Chakotay's head though, mentions of J/P because I cannot pass them by innocently
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-01-18 04:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12380505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple_Fay/pseuds/Maple_Fay
Summary: He sees her on the viewscreem of his ship, and remembers.





	1. Caretaker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MonAlice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonAlice/gifts).



> So. Here I am, awfully sick, it’s October, new facts come to be known about "Caretaker" original script, and my Almost Sister‘s birthday is in two days. Hence, I give you:
> 
> The Not-Entirely-Forced-Upon-Me Pre-Birthday Present For My Sis, in the shape of a Janeway/Chakotay fic that was supposed to be a oneshot, but the Muse is running rampant.
> 
> Happy birthday, lovely!
> 
> The title is from "Much Ado About Nothing" (seriously, what else could it be with these two?), and the premise of this fic is Jeri Taylor and Michael Piller’s idea of Chakotay having known and admired Kathryn[’s career]  _way_  before they met at the Caretaker’s array–with an added twist, because it’s me. Deal with it.
> 
> All the details mentioned in this piece have been hinted at during the course of the show. I would like to thank Memory Alpha for jogging up my memory. Now, onwards!

**_i know you of old_ **

He isn’t quite sure what to make of her. But that may simply be due to the sheer exhaustion—physical _and_ spiritual—he feels.  


So much loss. So much anger and hate, quite a lot of it his own.

So much conflict, inside and out.

He drops a disappointingly light duffel bag on the floor by the foot of the bed—Starfleet-regulation corners of the sheets make him cringe in dismay—and looks around, cracking his neck. The quarters are much nicer than the brig he’d imagined upon seeing a ‘Fleet starship on his viewscreen: another pleasant surprise in the row of many he’s experienced today. B’Elanna is fine, for one. The ship, a class he’d never served on before, is surprisingly maneuverable and nimble. He managed not to kill Tom bloody Paris—yet. All very positive things, considering.

None of them matches up to the real shock and thrill of the day: not even having been dumped into the heart of Delta Quadrant, losing his ship and a fair number of its crew, or almost dying no less than thrice.

He shakes his head at the twisted order of his own priorities, sheds his clothes into a haphazard pile next to the bag, and walks into the bathroom—he’s been assigned a privilege of a real water shower, given the state he’s in. Walking under the hot, fragrant spray, he throws his head back and sighs in relief.

 _Well then_ , he muses, working a piece of standard issue soap into a thick lather over his skin, _you’ve finally met her, you old idiot. One life goal accomplished, great job, you! Shame about the circumstances, though._

–

He shakes the last water droplets  out of his hair and smirks at the spotted, glazed-over mirror over the compact bathroom sink. _Freckles_ , he thinks, wiping off the droplets and condensation with one long swipe. _So many freckles_.

He didn’t remember there were this many.

By this point, memory and hearsay have already coalesced in an image he carries inside his mind, careful not to induce any damage to it. How is that image going to stand up in comparison with the real thing?, he wonders, walking into the main room of his quarters and stopping by the replicator with a frown that’s completely unrelated to the topic chiefly occupying his mind at the moment. Clothes. He should replicate some—but where to start? What to assume?

A chime doesn’t exactly break through this reverie, and he temporarily forgets his whereabouts, shouting, before he’s got a chance to think about it, “Come!”

The doors swish open, and somebody steps inside—only to stop dead after no more than two steps. “Am I interrupting something?”

He winces in embarrassment, but cannot help a smile, in answer to the one he hears in her voice. “Only a dilemma—what sort of garments would be most appropriate to the occasion?”

“I assume that your current state of significant underdress is the Ockham’s razor with which you wish to dispose of said dilemma?”

“In part, yes,” he agrees amiably, bending down to retrieve his smelly shirt and throw it on, partially unbuttoned, to accompany the Starfleet blue towel around his hips. “The other part was my being accustomed to a different level of privacy on the _Val Jean_ , captain.”

He turns and finds her standing by the door, arms folded across her chest and an eyebrow quirked as she surveys the mess he’s managed to make in the short time he spent here. “I’d suggest a standard issue Starfleet uniform,” she says almost off-handedly, offering no further comment on his privacy quip. “I’ve opened a temporary ration account for this replicator.”

“As you wish,” he nods, crossing over to the device and pausing just as he’s about to begin entering the parameters. “This will take a few minutes—may I offer you a drink before I begin? Is black coffee still your vice?”

She frowns, and he swears that, had she been a cat, her hackles would be standing up. “How do you know that?”

He smiles at his reflection in the replicator panel. “I remember passing your table at the Night Owl a few times after I’d finished my evening boxing session—the _smell_ of that tar in your mug was enough to keep me awake for several more hours.” He takes the cup from the machine and hands it to her, trying hard not to show his amusement with her stunned expression. “I probably have you to thank for a couple exams I managed not to fail in my last semester.”

“You…” She pauses, perplexed, takes a fortifying sip of coffee and starts again, “I would have remembered knowing you at the Academy.”

He shrugs, and picks up the undershirt and trousers from the output tray. “I never actually spoke to you,” he explains, stepping behind the bathroom door to begin dressing himself, “but on the first night I got whacked by the power of your caffeine addiction, I noticed you were studying chromolinguistics. I never heard of anyone other than the members of my tribe sharing an interest in that form of communication. I have to admit I was curious to know who you were.”

“And still, you didn’t ask.”

“Not _you_ directly, no,” he admits, stepping back into the main area and raising his arms in mock invitation for inspection. Her eyes pass over him, much like they have mere minutes ago, and he thinks he detects something similar to disappointment in her gaze, despite the earlier scolding. Perhaps putting the damned thing on was a mistake altogether. “But Ben Sisko from my team was friends with that LaForge chap in your year, so I at least got to know your name.” He shrugs into the newly integrated uniform jacket, and grimaces at the unyielding material, so unlike the comfortable warmth of his tattered old clothes. “I was surprised, though, to find that you knew mine—but that’s Starfleet intelligence files for you, am I correct?”

She nods, eyeing him carefully over the brim of her cup. “And you remembered it for, what? Over fifteen years? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” he replies, sounding somewhat more harsh than he would have liked. “I remembered it a few years ago, when it flooded the news after the _Billings_ mission, and did some digging of my own—with considerably smaller resources, naturally.” He leans against the wall by the silent replicator and allows himself a luxury of a long, measuring look at her: he’s not entirely sure where their conversation might be going, but he wants to see her as his equal, just in case their mutual standing is about to change. “What you did at that moon—going back to the surface alone after your crew had been injured—that took real guts and determination. I found Kathryn Janeway to be a formidable science officer, and a trustworthy commander.”

“Is that what made you trust me enough to beam onto _Voyager_?” There’s something in her voice he cannot quite place, and decides against pursuing it for the time being.

“To be honest with you, I was also appeased by _Tuvok’s_ willingness to trust you.” A beat. “Not the smartest move on my part, I admit.”

She smiles more openly at that, and puts the empty cup on a nearby shelf. “Well then—I hope your combined findings allow you to assess my proposal adequately.”

Given their current circumstances, and the dire need to get their combined crews home, he doubts that said proposal is going to have anything to do with replicating a bottle of Andorian wine, sitting on the floor by the wall and seeing where the evening takes them—but he knows enough to realize that this slender, tired-eyed woman in front of him still hasn’t lost the eagerness and zeal of the freckled-faced girl trying to decipher the meaning of colorful bubbles late on a Friday night, concentrating on the task so hard that she’d missed the entrance of several broad-shouldered, scantily clad and sweaty boxers who in turn ogled her shamelessly.

Well. He hopes he hadn’t—much. Although he most definitely had _looked_.

Just as he is now, listening to her proposal with due attention and trying not to wonder, the way he did all those years ago, where (if anywhere at all) these mysteriously golden freckles end.

Oh, well, he tells himself as he replicates a single glass of Andorian blue, once again left alone in his temporary quarters to “ponder the situation”: if he’s lucky, he’ll get to find out at some point.

If not… he’s not about to stop trying _now_ , is he? He got to catch a glimpse of one side of Kathryn Janeway’s personality, but he can bet whatever earthly possessions he’s got left that there’s still plenty more to discover.

For instance—if she still calls Tuvok “Mister”, why did she drop the nicety before Chakotay’s own name so quickly?

This, he decides, rolling the last sip of his wine around on his tongue, is going to be a particularly interesting fact to unearth.

**/end**


	2. Parallax

He suspects that, given the circumstances, the use of holodecks would be severely compromised and carefully rationed—and goes on fuming silently for a better part of a week, until Paris— _so bloody helpful, our Tom_ —points out that, given the ship’s original design, the holodecks have been equipped with a power supply completely independent from all other life support systems, so that the scientists could continue their research under the direst of conditions.

(“Too bad they cannot be looped into the mainframe,” Paris remarked dryly, almost in afterthought, making a face at a cup of tepid tea. “On the other hand, we might starve to death, but we’ll always be properly entertained.”)

Which is why Chakotay is currently cold, dirty—he’s been working in a Jefferies tube all day, helping B’Elanna in hope of gaining a modicum of forgiveness—and quite a bit hungry, but his training program is up and running smoothly.

As smooth as a boxing match could be, that is.

He dislocates his opponent’s jaw with a satisfying jab, and steps back, panting, watching the holographic shape of an Andorian vanish from view. “Computer, time.”

“Twenty three hundred hours.”

Two more rounds, he decides. The exhaustion that’s slowly creeping up his legs and down his arms still hasn’t dulled down his anger: not enough to let him sleep. He spits on the ring, punches the air in front of him. A few red spots dance before his eyes, eerily similar to a cluster of freckles.

_Not this again!_

Three rounds would be better.

\--

He isn’t sure why all this comes as a surprise to him. He knew enough to realize this would be a Starfleet vessel—he _agreed_ to that without protest—so why is it that he’s suddenly questioning everything about the arrangement?

The rebellious part of him points out that he never agreed to have his crew so diminished, so… mollified. _And he called B’Elanna ‘_ Torres’ _, for pity’s sake_. That was never part of the bargain.

He needs to find himself in all this. Keep a level head.

Stop thinking about _her_.

Easier said than done.

\--

At first, he asks many questions.

Not all of them—hardly _any_ of them, to be honest—about her idea of returning home, of running _Voyager_. There will be time (too much of it) for that later, he reasons. He needs to get to know his captain first. So he asks: about her hobbies, her likes and dislikes, her opinions on the war, the ‘Fleet politics, the color of _Voyager_ ’s walls, even.

And runs into a wall of his own.

Kathryn Janeway will not allow herself to become subject of a query.

Kathryn Janeway will not let anyone come too close. (Except Tuvok, perhaps, but let’s be real here: who could _ever_ become close to a Vulcan?)

Kathryn Janeway will not grant him any liberties. Not with the ship, not with its crew—and especially not with herself.

Chakotay breaks another holographic character’s nose, sending it flying into the ropes.

None of this should have surprised him, he lectures himself again. So what? He wipes a trickle of sweat from his brow, shakes his head, tries to get his breathing under control. He’s a royal mess, and it’s a true blessing that nobody—especially not B’Elanna, who would have understood everything in an instant—can see him now.

“You have a mean left hook.”

His shoulders droop in defeat. _Privacy locks_ , he berates himself silently. “Apologies, Captain. Have I stayed past my time?”

“On the contrary—I arrived early.” Her voice behind him moves closer, yet still he doesn’t turn to face her, pretending to focus on his glove ties. “Can I help?”

It takes a beat for him to realize she isn’t talking about the knotted strings. “This is something I need to process on my own,” he replies, pulling the right glove off with a mighty heave.

“Naturally.” He hears soft clothes rustling, imagines her sitting down on a bench below the ring. “Do you know I spent a few weeks as part of a scouting team behind enemy lines?”

He will not allow himself to be thrown by the _non sequitur_. “Did you kill any Cardassians?” he asks dryly, not sure what the proper reaction to such an admission should be.

“No. But I did save one. A wounded soldier. We watched him lie in mud, dying, for almost two days. And then, when the time was right, my commanding officer ordered us to go and help him. Tend to his wounds. Wipe the grime off his skin.

“I thought I wouldn’t be able to do it. He was so… primarily evil, I suppose. The perfect image of an enemy. And here I was, supposed to bring him relief. To care. So I did, because I’d been ordered to. And after that—I don’t know what changed. But I tried to treat every person I meet with the same reverence, the same compassion, as that wounded Cardassian.”

He turns, a bitter remark on the tip of his tongue: and swallows it, seeing the resignation in her posture, the dullness of her eyes. “That’s a noble calling, Captain—not everyone would be willing to take it on.”

She looks up at him and nods, looking strangely fortified. “I realize that. And I do not wish it upon anyone, not if they’re forced to accept it. However…”

He flinches, and she changes pace instantly, clapping her hands briskly with a slightly forced smile, the topic of their conversation pushed swiftly aside. “I trust that you had a good session, Commander?”

He nods, his head spinning with too many emotions. “It was rather invigorating, thank you. Would you like to try it? I can leave the program running—“

“It’s Velocity for me: but thank you. Right now, I need to—keep moving.”

“Of course.” _This does explain an awful lot_ , he thinks, closing the program. In the dull, blueish light of the hologrid, Janeway looks tired and pale, but her eyes sparkle eagerly as she conjures the game tools out of thin air. “Have a good game, Captain.”

He wonders how long the spark will last, and hopes he wouldn’t be the one extinguishing it.

If a piece of his anger falls away as he exits the holodeck, he doesn’t notice it happening.

**TBC…**


	3. The Cloud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So: I think I've figured out the way I'd like this story to go (or rather: it wrote itself, and I had absolutely no say in any of this) - I'm imagining this as a series of vignettes exploring the J/C relationship throughout the run of the show, with a few considerable changes to the 'official' plot, because it's fanfic and I can do whatever I want. Hopefully you'll get to see what I mean within the next few hours or so.
> 
> Happy New Year, wherever you are - I hope you enjoy the story :)

It takes him a while to find it, even amongst such a pathetically small collection of personal belongings as his: but finally, there it is, mocking him from the darkest corner of an old Starfleet-issue duffel bag. A tightly packed, leather-wrapped bundle he once used to open daily—lying forgotten for spirits only know how long.

He would not open it again if he could avoid it—and yet, here he is, putting the packet willingly under one arm as he exits his quarters.

It’s her curiosity, so endearing and contagious (much like her thirst for knowledge of chromography, all those years ago), that’s done this, he reasons.

She’s been through enough emotional turmoil these past few days, and deserves a moment of respite. Or such is the ‘official’ version.

Truthfully, he is trying to see whether an actual crack has appeared in her carefully constructed armor, or if he’s simply seeing things—no Acoonah involved.

He’s strangely looking forward to this whole experience.

\--

He only has a single word to describe this whole ordeal.

_Anticlimactic._

‘Safety protocols’ seem to be the defining term of their entire (for lack of a better word) relationship.

And he may be despising B’Elanna just a bit for breaking the… connection, if that’s what it was.

And it’s because he feels guilty about despising his best friend that he accepts her invitation for a drink later that evening, even though the captain has requisitioned the Acoonah once more, and he would be more than happy to guide her on her journey again.

\--

As it turns out, nobody goes on any journey this particular evening. Not to find an animal guide, at least.

On the other hand, Paris may be well on his way into drinking himself into stupor, he thinks, not unhappily. Oh, where’s a holocam when one needs it?!

He makes a beeline for the bar, gestures with an empty wineglass. Feels her presence next to his side before she’s had a chance to speak. “Your poison, Captain?”

“Calvados, if you please.”

“How very Remarque of you.”

“I take that as a compliment.” She adjusts a displaced strand of hair, the only sign of physical exertion: even though she’s just wiped the bistro floor with Paris and Kim. _Three times_. “And wonders never cease: I never would have taken you for a connoisseur of ancient French literature.”

“ _I_ never would have taken _you_ for a pool hustler,” he points out, handing her the glass of golden liquid. _She’s beautiful when she smiles_ , a sudden thought flashes through his mind. He washes it down with a large gulp of his wine.

“Do you know why I was always studying so hard on Fridays, burning the midnight dilithium at the Night Owl?”

 _Non sequiturs_ are another thing about their budding relationship, it would seem. “Diligence? Insatiable thirst for knowledge?”

“That, too—thank you for the kind assessment—but it was mostly due to the fact that I spent most of my other weeknights at the Blue Balls.”

It’s a good thing he hasn’t been drinking _now_ : he only has air to choke on instead of wine. “The wha—?“

“Science and Medical dive bar—not exactly _legal_ , I must confess. We allowed outsiders to join us, occasionally. Jack Crusher—Beverly’s boyfriend—taught me everything I know about pool, and continued to challenge me until I could beat any guy in there. Remember, we were _Science_ cadets: we knew all about angles and rotations and centrifugal forces.”

“That explains a lot,” he admits, toasting her with his glass. “Although I didn’t think you would turn against Tom Paris, of all people. Isn’t he your… _pet project_ , for the lack of a better word?” he tries very hard not to think of her lingering touches, the way she clasped Paris’ shoulder, how well they worked together on the bridge.

Kathryn Janeway smiles and shrugs a shoulder, downing the contents of her glass in one go. “I’ve known him for a long time, mostly per proxy—his father was my mentor, so to speak. He concerns me a great deal, but I can also see great potential in him. _That_ said,” she throws Chakotay a coy glance, “I wasn’t going to let him get away with keeping this place a secret from me.”

He chuckles, amused to see this new (to him), playful side of his captain: a pool shark with an interestingly curvy…

_Not that he looked._

Which he did.

A lot.

This realization stays with him for the rest of the evening, as he quietly sips his wine and watches the captain dancing with the gigolo, now that only the senior crew members have remained in _Sandrine’s_. His eyes catch Paris, sitting by the opposite wall with young Harry Kim, the pilot’s attention also focused on Janeway.

 _Interesting_ , he thinks, for a second trying to adopt the anthropologist’s view of this situation.

 _Infuriating_ , he decides after a beat, abandoning the pretense entirely as the holographic man-toy dips Janeway expertly, and yet another enticing curve announces its presence to the world—or, perhaps, just Chakotay and Paris.

Which already feels like a crowd.

He leaves inconspicuously, to ponder this thought in the solitude of his quarters.

Nobody stops him.

**TBC…**


	4. The 37s / Elogium

Of course it’s empty.

He never believed in any other outcome.

Her obvious relief makes his heart clench: was she really that doubtful, of her own abilities as a leader as well as of her crew’s loyalty?

She looked so small, so _fragile_ , sitting by the ready room window, contemplating a possibility of abandoning her quest for the crew’s sake. Selfless, yes; perhaps even stupidly so.

He wishes he could have done something more substantial then: cover her hand with his, express himself with greater flare, let her know her devotion to the crew does not go unnoticed.

He’s not sure it would have been welcome, or acceptable. They’ve yet to discuss onboard fraternization policy for the ship—what few relationships he knows of are fairly conspicuous, and he doesn’t find them concerning in any way—much less the captain’s part in it. Would she take a lover? Not likely, given the aforementioned tendency to put the crew’s needs first. A mate, or partner? A spouse, perhaps, to cement the union and make it more… respectable, in the eyes of everyone onboard?

He cannot begin to imagine a likely scenario for her.

Or, almost as an afterthought, his own place in it.

\--

A few weeks later, he gets his answer.

And it’s not at all what he’s been expecting: not with the sultry look in her eyes, the playful smile, the warm glow upon her cheeks.

Not with how she managed to notice his distress from across the bridge. Or how her eyes lingered on his mouth.

This whole situation is starting to spin out of control. Yes, he’s curious about her—how she goes about her day, how she manages the ship and the crew; what are her dreams for _after_ ; would she have surrendered him to the authorities _now_ , after everything they’ve been through together?—but he cannot understand this accompanying emotion, this need to watch her, constantly, to be close: not just to offer his advice and support when asked for it, but also to simply _enjoy_ her being her.

He cannot truthfully say he’d ever experienced anything like that. Certainly not with Seska, whose constant bickering begins to wear off him.

He’s aware that Paris keeps observing him: both with Seska, _and_ with the captain. He watches the younger man’s interactions with Kes, and wonders—how deep does the interest go, especially in comparison to the lieutenant’s unique relationship with Kathryn Janeway?

Naturally, but the time he reaches that particular point in his musings, everything has turned upside down. Again.

Sitting in her ready room, with a bowl of broth in his hand and a swarm of phallic creatures waving at them through the window, is surely the most bizarre way this day could have gone.

(He hopes.)

“Would you have wanted to have children?” He hates the way this question is phrased, but it would be imprudent for him to assume anything, especially given the comment she’d made earlier, about her fiancé not giving up on her return.

She gives his a long, measured look and sighs, turning her cup between nimble fingers. “To be honest, I’ve never considered that.”

This comes as a surprise: given everything he’s learnt about her since becoming a part of her crew, and everything he knew before—her unique level of consideration for the people around her, her eager mind, yearning both to learn and to teach—he would have expected her to have a certain opinion on raising up a family of her own.

In a flash, he imagines a tiny, freckled girl with ginger hair tied up in tidy plaits, leaning against Kathryn Janeway’s leg. The child raises her head and looks at him with his mother’s deep, brown eyes that hold the same bold curiosity for life as his CO’s.

He barely stops himself from gasping loudly at the vision before him.

A question. Something to save him—hopefully.

“Weren’t—aren’t you engaged, Captain?”

He cannot be sure in the pinkish glow from the mysterious life forms, but her cheeks might be coloring slightly. “There’s never been the right time to… It seemed more important to secure my first command than to pick out baby names.” She leans back on the sofa, turns the cup again and again. “If you’re asking whether I regret that… the answer would be both yes and no. I do regret that any chance of prospective motherhood have been taken away from me, for goodness knows how long. But regretting that I didn’t have children before today? No, that is most certainly not the case.”

“It might have kept you on Earth,” he points out gently, putting his barely touched meal away. “Away from the Delta Quadrant.”

Her head shoots up, and he has to swallow another gasp at the haunted look in her eyes.

“Yes,” she says simply, and reclines back, closing her eyes in silent recollection.

He doesn’t need to be dismissed to know he’s overstayed his welcome.

\--

“Do you think it’s a sexual attraction?”

He most certainly does, now.

He keeps that thought buried deep at the bottom of his mind, and goes on providing semi-scientific explanations for the creatures’ behavior. It’s easier to deal with an onslaught of feelings this way, than to imagine all the could-have-beens of their lives: what would have happened if they met, _properly_ met, at the Academy? If they literally bumped into each other at a disco club: would the flashy lights and uninhibited dancing made up for changes in coloring and provocative movements? Would she have allowed him some (any) liberties?

Or would she have shot him down mercilessly?

Instinctively, he moves in closer to her, and delights (much as he had done the first time they stood face to face) in the way she stands up strong, right there in his face, hands on her hips and emitting a magnetic pull strong enough to break down all of his defenses.

He escapes the bridge that night with a feeling of a scale being tipped.

He wishes he knew which way is up now.

**TBC…**


	5. Investigations

“Never talk to me this way again, Chakotay. _Never_.”

“Are you surprised? How did you expect me to react to the news that I’ve been played—once again made an object of fun, of _sport_ —“

“This had nothing to do with you.”

“It had _everything_ to do with me!” He slams a fist into the conference table, watches her face grow darker. “You put me in charge of this crew—you yourself have said, multiple times, that _I_ was to be the link between you and them—and then you went about this behind my back?!”

She leans back against a wall, crosses her arms in front of her chest. With a smile playing dangerously at the corners of her lips, and the lightning turned down for the evening, she makes a picture he would normally have taken time to contemplate at length: but tonight he wishes he could wrap his hand around her throat and _squeeze_ , in hope of getting an admission of guilt out of her.

Fat chance of that happening.

“Would you have been comfortable with that knowledge, Chakotay? _Truly_ comfortable knowing that I was about to re-open that chapter of your life?”

The question catches him square on the chest, burning through the armor of his rage. “Please don’t tell me you had my wellbeing in mind, _Captain_.”

“I pride myself with thinking I never neglect to consider the wellbeing of any of my crewmembers, _Commander_.”

He cannot in all honesty find any fault in this statement, for this is what she does, constantly.

It still hurts to be overlooked, though. To be put second—always second—after _Tom. Bloody. Paris_.

“Still—you have proven that you do not trust me. I cannot see the point of continuing to—“

“To do what, Chakotay?” she cuts into his angry speech, stepping closer to him, almost close enough to touch. “To work with me? To make sure these people return home, safe: and preferably without compromising their personal ethics in the process? To continue to stick to the values we both share?”

“Are you sure of that? After all, you’ve taken on a Maquis to be your XO: what else could you have expected but a—“

“ _Enough_.” Her voice is colder than he’s ever heard it become, but there’s no anger in her eyes: only sadness. “I don’t have time to deal with a hurt male ego, Commander. Your issue with Lieutenant Paris clearly extends beyond this journey, which doesn’t surprise me, given your personal histories: but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let it poison the relations between my senior staff. I’d appreciate it if you could find a way to get past this hostility. I will say this only once, Chakotay—“ she pauses, hesitates for the briefest moment, and places a hand on his chest, light and gentle but anchoring him to her like a duranium chain, “I trust you. With my ship, my crew—my _life_. I hope you trust me enough to fulfill one simple request: not an order, mind you, a request.

“Do _not_ question my decisions again.”

She leaves him standing in the darkened conference room, out of breath and feeling like an utter idiot. Honestly, he should be blaming Tuvok—it would be only _logical_ —but instead he went straight for the kill, striking where it would hurt (her, him, whichever) most.

How is it that she can touch him so deeply—his heart, his mind, his spirit—and still remain so firmly in control of her own feelings? He remembers her calm, detached determination when she attempted to put herself and the ship between B’Elanna’s missile and an innocent planet, fully prepared to die in the process. Was it easy for her? Surely not: and yet she did it, and never looked back.

Never looked to _him_ for support, even though she eventually allowed Tuvok to remain by her side.

Is that it?, he wonders: is he _jealous_ because he’d been denied the possibility of dying with her?

She left the crew in his care, and he all but belayed that order.

The depth of his affection for her still catches him by surprise, when he stops to think about it—to _acknowledge_ it properly. How did this turn from a student’s curiosity to a fully blown…

He’s not ready to say the word, not even to himself.

It doesn’t change the fact that it’s there, clear as day.

A resolution forms in his mind, one he dearly hopes to keep: he will protect her. From everything.

Including himself.

**TBC…**


	6. Resolutions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's rating is somewhat closer to M than T - and the whole thing takes a turn into AU territory.
> 
> Have fun - it's 10:11 PM on December 31, 2017 over here - I'm going to crack open a bottle of bubbles, and toast all you awesome people who have read this far into this strange thing of a fic. Happy 2018!

This is the moment, right now: a chance for him to look away, apologize, turn back and head for the shelter with his tail between his legs, pretending nothing untoward has happened.

It’s what he _should_ do, anyway.

_It’s a good thing I haven’t lost my rebel touch_ , he thinks, squaring off his shoulders. He makes an effort to forget about fraternization policies and generational ships, Paris and hyper-evolution, newts and warp ten. Seska and his child.

That is all gone now.

_This_ is their reality. The two of them, a pesky monkey, and too much moonlight.

It needs to be done.

He clears his throat, holds her eyes when she raises them to his face. Makes no attempt to touch her. “Kathryn.”

She nods, and he thinks her voice must be even more strained than he is, so she’s desperate trying not to lose her face with him. “I need to say something now, lest we end up despising each other.

“It won’t come as much of a surprise—I find myself drawn to you, in a way much more powerful than anything I’d ever felt for anyone. However, I respect you, first and foremost, and I will accept any decision you make regarding this. Regarding _us_.

“Were we still on _Voyager_ , I wouldn’t have spoken. Should you find a way to cure us and let us rejoin the crew, or should some other miraculous event reunite us with them, you may consider my words moot. Or not. As I said, I leave the decision entirely in your hands.

“But do not deny me this: an opportunity to tell you that right now, you’re the only thing I ever want to see, the only person I could imagine myself living the rest of my natural life with. I apologize if this seems overly soppy, or too simplistic, but it’s easier to say it all right now than walk around the issue in circles and risk losing your friendship—your _respect_ —in the end. Excuse me.”

He nods, curtly, turns on the spot and heads back to the shelter, leaving her standing by the bathtub, transfixed, moonlight spilling over her naked skin. Spirits, he really _has_ been infused with all the holodrama babble, hasn’t he?

This might have been it, he ponders, returning to his place at the table and moving the art supplies to the side: there’s no way he could make anything tonight anyway, not when his palms itch to touch phantom skin, to connect all those wonderful, golden spots into one glorious design…

The shelter door creaks gently, and he promptly looks down at his hands.

When a hem of a standard issue bathrobe comes into his vision, he startles and look up, curious, hopeful, and—as an aftermath from their encounter outside—quite ridiculously aroused.

Kathryn rests a hip against the table, right next to his legs. She doesn’t seem angry, which is a good start: there’s something contemplative, almost calculating in the way she looks at him—but there’s tenderness, too, and that’s what melts his heart, what makes the arousal completely insignificant in the face of a possibility of _them_.

“I will need to—think, about all this,” she tells him, her voice unusually low, but steady. He nods eagerly, aching to take the white material of her robe and rub it between his fingers, pull a little.

“Of course.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Sorry?”

“I’ll think about it tomorrow.” She pauses and chuckles, shaking her head. “A heroine of an ancient novel used to say that, I believe. Whenever she was faced with an impossible problem, she would put off analyzing it until she’d had a good night’s sleep. But I don’t think I’m going to sleep well tonight, Chakotay.” (Now he wishes to apologize, wishes to take it all back if his admission hurt her—) “Not unless I do this.”

She traces the lines of his tattoo with a gentle finger that burns his skin. He closes a hand around her wrist, barely tight enough to feel her pulse speeding away at the same rate as his.

“Does it have any special meaning? I never asked.”

“Neither have I—and then, it was…”

“Too late. Another opportunity missed.”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad you talked to me, Chakotay. Thank you.”

He smiles, and—emboldened by the way she sways gently into him—presses a fleeting kiss to the inside of her arm, so close to his face. “Thank _you_ for not drowning me in that bathtub, Kathryn.”

“That would have been a terrible loss,” she quips, not offering any further explanation (loss of _what_ , please: him? The tub? Both?). “Say it again, please. My name.”

“Kathryn,” he repeats softly, releasing his hold of her wrist to trail a line up her arm, under the crisp material of the robe. “I like the way you say mine, too.”

She smiles and takes his other hand, presses their palms together, fingers intertwining.

“Chakotay.”

\--

“Chakotay!”

He smiles against overly sensitive skin, and earns himself a kick in the vicinity of his shoulder blade. “I _felt_ that, you smug… oh, come here.”

He makes his way back up, slowly, rubbing his mouth against soft, flushed skin in a caress that’s barely a kiss, but somehow it’s exactly what they both need. Her legs slide down his back, trembling slightly, until they lock around his hips as they lie side by side on his narrow cot, Kathryn’s hands combing through his hair, caressing his earlobes.

“Come here,” she repeats, and moves ever so slightly, exactly enough.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers into her skin much, much later. She catches her breath, relaxes; reaches up, swipes a stray tear away with her thumb, kisses him again (she kisses like the tempest and like summer rain, and it’s terribly sweet and ultimately frightening how much he wants never to be apart from her), tugs his head closer to her breast, to the still speeding heart he silently vows to protect.

“I’ve got you, too,” she whispers back, and he thinks—this is the only declaration he needs.

He’s hers.

**TBC…**


End file.
